


Vulcan Love Slave (Excerpt)

by dianekepler



Category: Star Trek
Genre: BDSM, Crack, F/M, Gor - Freeform, Humor, John Norman, Master/Slave, Satire, Vulcans being touched in inappropriate places., Vulcans displaying emotion, eek! capitalism!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler
Summary: Vulcan Love Slave, one of the great works of Ferengi literature, has been read by many a young Ferengi in his time. It has spawned sequels, films, and even holodeck programs. Now, for the first time, an excerpt from the novel appears!Disclaimer: Don’t own any Trek stuff, but the writing style of John Norman can be legally satirized up the wazoo.Warnings: Crack-crackity-crackfic. No ideer what’s driving me to satirize John Norman’s writing style up the wazoo, nor to put Vulcans and Ferengi in a Gorean story. Blame it on my cracktastic LiveJournal friends.





	Vulcan Love Slave (Excerpt)

I awoke to a chill and the sensation of cloying humidity. It provoked a need to escape yet I found, to my confusion, that I could not. I was chained.

My wrists were encased in manacles which could not be slipped. They had not been made to be slipped. They were connected, I discerned, by chains to a collar of cold metal. Too, my clothes were gone. 

Naked and chained. I lifted a brow. Fascinating. 

I lay on my side on the cold, packed earth. A longer, thicker chain connected my collar to the base of a thick wooden post. The wood was coarse-grained. It was not a type of wood that existed on my planet. The humidity and sea breezes were also not those of my homeworld. This was not Vulcan. 

I was not alone. Around the perimeter of what seemed to be a tent were other prisoners, restrained in various fashions. All were naked. Those that were conscious regarded me coldly or warily and said nothing, not even when I addressed them in several common languages. 

I examined my bonds. The manacles and chains and presumably the collar were made of iron. I admired their workmanship. 

The length of chain connecting the collar to the post allowed me sit or kneel or or move perhaps point three seven of a meter from my initial position. From outside came the sounds of what I presumed to be a marketplace. There was the patter of unknown languages and cries from what must have been vendors. Too, there were scents: culinary odors and the musk of animals.

I was collared and chained, with the dirt of a foreign marketplace on my naked breasts and thighs. The thought excited me. 

This latest sensation caused me a moment of concern. It was perhaps what my instructors had meant when they assured me I was unprepared for the discipline of Kolinahr. 

Without warning, three Ferengi stepped through a flap of the tent. The first was stocky and wore a leather apron over his garments. He was red-faced, and shrewd-eyed. Actually, being all of the same race meant they shared these traits. The second was taller than the other two and more physically developed, with various weapons and implements depending from a belt at his waist. However, my attention was drawn to the third visitor. He was clearly the wealthiest of the three. 

My pulse quickened at this discovery. I did not understand the reason for this. 

The group of Ferengi stopped just inside the tent. All were waiting on the decisions of third man, on the track of his cerulean eyes. Or perhaps they were azure. I checked against my carefully memorized list of color synonyms. Yes, azure was certainly a better description. 

Slowly, the leader made a tour of the room. I compared his motions to those of the fierce le-matya, for he was as graceful and controlled as one of the large hunting cats. Also, his teeth were as sharp. He stopped before several of the posts and examined whomever was chained there. Each of the prisoners who held his interest were female, although in the case of the Horta, I was forced to extrapolate.

A casual glance over his shoulder brought the leader’s gaze in contact with mine. Slowly, he turned from his previous examination to cross the distance between us. I continued to stare. There was no escaping his eyes; their lapis depths held me as certainly as the manacles I wore. 

His hand flashed out and seized me by the hair. Before I could react or struggle, he'd slapped me twice, with harsh, ringing blows across the face. Then he wrenched my head around to face him. He shouted stridently, once and then again, his tone rising at the end of the phrase. I was being questioned. 

The stocky one muttered something. Hopefully it concerned my lack of facility with their language. My ears were ringing and both of my cheeks felt hot. 

At a curt nod from the leader, the aproned Ferengi addressed me in a guttural language which I realized after a moment’s hesitation was Standard. 

"The Esteemed Potential Buyer wishes to know," he emphasized the final word, "why you stare so brazenly."

My eyes flicked to my captor. I could not turn my head because he was holding it in a grip as cold, firm as the manacles I wore. Which were firm. And cold. 

"I don't know. I- " 

"You have committed an act of exceeding disrespect."

I considered this. Kidnapping and restraint were not respectful acts either, nor was slapping me about the cheeks. But I gathered that none of the Ferengi would appreciate being thus informed. 

Another murmured comment from my captor. The hand in my hair tightened. 

"The Most August Shopper wishes to know if you understand." 

"I grasp the meaning of your words."

"No. The Revered Holder of the Latnium wishes to know if you understand."

At this point there was exchange between the translator and the leader in their native tongue. Suddenly, everyone in the group broke out into sharp-toothed smiles. 

The hand in my hair uncurled and slowly drew away, but not without pausing to trace a line along my jaw towards my chin. I sought to control any physical reactions, but in my naked and vulnerable position, this this was beyond me, especially when he extended the line from my chin along my throat, over the collar, along my shoulder, and down my arm. My breathing quickened.

The leader continued in Standard. "How much for this one then?"

The merchant named a figure in pieces of latnium. 

The buyer tossed his head and laughed. "And here I was thinking that you'd be grateful to have a return customer."

"She was only brought in last night," the vendor protested,"brand new. I have the documents to prove it."

"Yes, and untrained." He caught one of my manacled wrists, tracing an unknown pattern on the back of one hand. Did this Ferengi understand about the sensitivity of Vulcan hands? I fought to keep from trembling.

"But think of the possibilities!"

"I am thinking of the time I'll have to waste on training her myself." My tormentor was speaking to the merchant but all the while he kept his eyes fixed on me. I made no motion. But there was no doubt that my body was responding to his touch. My mind raced, trying to think of a solution. But it was fruitless. I was chained. 

The merchant pressed on. "Your neighbors will envy such a beautiful new prize!"

"I am not in the market so my neighbors will envy me," the buyer replied with consummate disdain. "Besides, the price you ask is ridiculous."

"Obtaining Vulcans is a difficult business. And she's a virgin, besides."

"You are certain?"

The small man seemed faintly annoyed. "Granted, it was difficult to tell with the Horta, but- .”

"Fair enough," my tormentor remarked. He paused in his ministrations to circle behind me. There, he gathered a handful of my gleaming hair, which shone, like a lustrous thing.

The wealthy Ferengi returned to my circle of vision. He took my hand this time and swept a thumb over . He barely brushed them, yet the sensation sent me out of control, straining against my bonds with barely-contained heat. 

"She will take well to the training," the vendor observed smugly. "Look, she is yours already."

I was silent as deep space. More silent, actually, because holographic dramas had long ago convinced me that the silence of deep space was often broken by the sound of trumpets, especially when a starship swung into view. But the worst part was that I was silent not just for propriety’s sake. Part of it was awe. The manner in which he was touching me was unlike any I had yet encountered. My entire body was responding, opening to him even in the presence of strangers. And this cursed Ferengi knew it. 

He addressed me then, his ultramarine eyes once again holding mine, his ears large and concave. "What do you say to that, Slave. Will you be easy to train?"

I stared at him in disbelief. "I not a slave." 

For an instant I thought he would slap me again. Instead he took my turgid thumbs between his fingers and pulled until my body arched towards him and the tent rang with a wanton cry that heaved itself out of some shameful emotional well. 

"And yet here you are bound like a slave and displayed like a slave." He leaned closer. “Responding like a slave.”

I set my jaw and did not answer. 

"And, like a slave, your will means nothing." Another pair of slaps, this time to the backs of my hands. I gasped and jerked in my bonds. Without words I had answered him completely 

"I am not-"

"Really now?" he inclined his head at me, interrupting.

I stared him down. I steeled myself for another slap, but it did not come. Instead, he directed a command at the muscular Ferengi, who removed from his belt a short whip with braided tails. I was shocked. I was a Vulcan, bred to peace. Hitting anyone with an implement made for the purpose was barbaric -- excitingly so. 

The whip-handler circled around behind me. Without a preamble, he began, quickly, accurately, to flog me upon the shoulders and the pale globes of my posterior. I leaned into the post, determined to make no sound, but that resolve soon cracked. 

“Nineteen pieces of latnium,” observed the buyer, as he watched me. 

The stocky merchant shook his head. "Thirty, but only because of your loyal patronage.”

"It'd be half a cycle before she'd be of any use. Twenty."

I cried out as a particularly harsh blow caught me unprepared. Both the vendor and the buyer noted this, but it did not interrupt their bargaining. They were Ferengi. 

"I could offer you twenty-eight to make up for that delay. But see how she behaves."

The buyer held up a hand and the blows from behind me ceased. Then I received two shocks simultaneously, one was the presence of the buyer’s hand at a most intimate location — the tip of my right ear. The other was how my body had prepared itself without my notice. I mewled and tried to twist away. 

"Do not think,” he growled at me, “that you will escape your fate, you pointy-eared hussy." And then, an aside to the vendor: "Twenty one."

My eyes flew open to find his cyan ones quite close. I writhed in an agony of embarrassment at his touch, unable to even calculate the distance of his eyes past the first digit. 

"You never answered my question, Slave. Earlier I asked if you’d be easy to train."

My senses reeled. There was the hot, pulsing pain of my fundament; the blood sang in my ears. Not as clearly as the female voices that sang over the credits in of my favorite space dramas, but similarly. Too, my breathing was fast and shallow. 

"Will you be easy to train?" The blows began again. I squirmed. I shook my head in denial. 

And thus he turned away. 

"Wait!" I cried, against all reason. 

The buyer turned and gazed into my wide and frenzied eyes. He held up a hand. And once more the whipping ceased. 

"You address me, Slave?"

“Yes, Master! I will take well to the training. Only do not … leave.” My lip trembled. 

The wealthy Ferengi strode slowly back to post sighed at the vendor. "Very well. Twenty-three it is. By the Blessed Exchequer, you drive a hard bargain!"

It seemed an eternity while he counted out the amount to the short man, who quickly made it disappear inside his apron. 

I was a Vulcan. Yet my will meant nothing. I had been sold. 

My new owner then came forward to stand before me extending an idle hand to tweak the tip of one ear. "You meant what you said, Slave?"

"Yes, Master!" I replied struggling again to control the strange passion I felt. 

He squeezed my ear once more time and I moaned in a disconcerting mix of ecstasy and pain. My handlers, the other two, rolled me into a large square of cloth, and used the chain from my collar to secure it. Then they carried me outside, into a drizzling rain that was so cold and yet was warmer than the ice-blue eyes of my new master. 

Although, not too put too fine a point on it, but the rain was still really freaking cold.


End file.
